5 Minutes of a Sunday Afternoon

walk down the hallway, one toe on one foot cracking with every step

(Click… click… click…)

thoughts on something impossible like God or relativity or positions in the Kama Sutra

or maybe just dinner

each step, each dumb breath, and heels do not touch the ground

sun spears in through frost-clouds on glass doors

somewhere, a phone is ringing

singing to music never heard before

bend, turn, twist, lift, breathe humid air smoking from my burden

mingling with the ascorbic-sweet of partially drunk tea still sitting tepid in another room

fingernails catch edges on gawky netting

thought on something purple prose like Pisces or Cleopatra’s asp or geisha girls

or maybe just cheap alcohol

lift the bag of laundry and pad back down the hallway

heels not touching the ground